


THE BOY WITH THE SEED IN HIS SIDE

by Honmyo_Seagull



Category: Dark Avengers (Comic), Death of Wolverine: The Logan Legacy, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: A bit gory sometimes, Dark Reign (Marvel), Flashbacks, Graphic description of harm, Hydra mentioned, M/M, Missing Scene, Past Love, death seed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-22 16:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honmyo_Seagull/pseuds/Honmyo_Seagull
Summary: They have a past, sure. And it’s not that absence makes the heart grow fonder. It’s rather that if Bullseye has to bear again the pain in the ass Daken is while in Madripoor, he’ll rather have the mutant equal to himself. Also, he’d appreciate if the punk would stop getting first at the people he wants to kill, dammit. Or not have to deal with evil seeds and Daken’s past love life. Seriously.
Relationships: Daken Akihiro/Agent Kim, Daken Akihiro/Lester | Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Daken/Bullseye
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. ANOTHER ONE WILL BITE THE DUST

**Author's Note:**

> Set between the events of Logan Legacy #5 (flashback to the infamous auction in Madripoor and the meeting with agent Kim) and Logan Legacy #1 (when Daken is captured with the other Wolverines).

**THE BOY WITH THE SEED IN HIS SIDE**

**CHAPTER 1 : ANOTHER ONE WILL BITE THE DUST**

**OoOoOoOoO**

_Agent Karp, 41 y.o., Hydra affiliation, Madripoor cell._

Other than that, the folder is dreadfully slim. But Bullseye? He’s not a slouch. Not the first time he’ll have a little hunting to do to dig out a reluctant victim. He’s not overly worried either about the target itself. (These Hydra operatives are rarely as good as they think they are. Shame.) But he kind of _hates_ the client. And it kind of _spoils_ the anticipation of the kill.

There’s a way to do things, you know? You go to a fixer, the fixer gets to him! Simple. Compartmentalized. Instead, a phone comes into his mailbox. (At home. One of his homes. Whatever. He’ll have to move, now, dammit.) A video plays as soon as he touches the screen. The woman stares at him, her lips curled in a vague sneer. Demanding ( _Demanding!_ ) him to get rid of her problem as if he were the help. Where’s the respect! Granted, the money is _real_ good. And the first deposit has already been wired to one of his accounts. (He transfers the money elsewhere right away and closes it for good, it’s not like he hasn’t others. But still. He is annoyed. Where’s the privacy!)

But in the end, he makes his peace with it in the plane. The travel’s arrangements have been made (he’s not sure he likes that) and are, at least, frankly luxurious: business class under one of his aliases. (Which he’ll probably have to burn too, the bitch!) And all expenses are paid. He orders a pricey _champagne_ he’s heard Daken rave about a long, long time ago (funny the things you remember), just for spite. He raises his glass in the air in a mock salute and tells himself he just has to kill _her_ next. Her fault for letting him see her face. All’s well. (Also, Daken was right. That shit is _good_.)

The panoramic view from the window of his hotel room is breathtaking. But the heat is humid and oppressive in Madripoor, so he decides to forego the costume entirely. He is not a vain man, but he can see the bandana he uses to hide the distinctive mark on his forehead is kinda flattering on him.

In his mind, sudden and unwanted, an image of Daken annoyingly pops up. (It randomly happens sometimes, he doesn’t question it much. It’s been happening for _years_.) _Rakish_ , the mutant says, all eyes sparkling and hungry smile. He looks almost real, the way he half reclines on the hotel bed. The same way he had years ago when Bullseye had used a similar get up. (He was about to go and off some deluded bikers whom Normie wanted gone. They had presumed to touch to the traffic of high-end technology. Not a fan of the open market, Normie.) Bullseye remembers the surge of mingled outrage and pleasure at the weight of this gaze as if it was yesterday.

OoOoOoOo

 _“Rakish,” Daken says. (And Bullseye doesn’t preen. He_ doesn’t _.)_

_The mutant is looking at him with insistence from his spot on the bed; naked as the day he was born and hardly covered by the sheets they've just ruined. It’s funny how, even from that distance, he seems like he can actually touch you with his eyes._

_“It’s a nice change from your Bullseye costume, I like it. You’re really going all in.”_

_Bullseye shrugs. He also feels exposed like a piece of meat, even more so now than when he was desecrating his bed with Daken hardly a few moments ago. (He caved, again. It keeps happening. And after the deed, there’s always this bizarre moment of clarity when he wonders how he even let that happen.) He’d die rather than let it show, though._

_“They don’t expect an attack on their own turf, obviously. But trying to blend in first is the right move.”_

_The lightness that precedes a job already suffuses his mind, fortunately. He is in a particularly good disposition. There’s something in the lenient smile the mutant throws him back that tells him Daken can feel it all from him. It’s weird, but in reaction to his own mood, the punk looks looser. Less guarded. As if_ his _feelings were the ones communicative for once._

_His anticipation of the kill mingles with the faint residual arousal provoked by the sight of dried blood on Daken’s indecently spread thighs. (No, Bullseye hasn’t been gentle, and Daken, surprisingly, kept his retaliations relatively tame without prompting to keep him functional, aware of his mission to come.)_

_As a last touch, Bullseye dons a weathered leather coat he sometimes uses to cruise the seediest part of town when he is bored and need a quick fix of killing. It will also nicely do for this night’s endeavor. Daken straightens up on his elbows; the spike in his interest is obvious. His gaze takes a decidedly hungrier undertone. His teeth flash briefly before he actually licks his lips. There’s something animal in the way his whole body seems to coil, just like he were about to pounce._

_“Can I come and look?” he asks from somewhere down in his throat. “Leather does things to me.” And this voice makes things to Bullseye’s groin anew_ , _aaaall right._

_“Of course, it does,” Bullseye snorts. It’s kind of obvious. And because he likes having an appreciative audience, he finds himself willing to indulge the mutant. But he has to make sure the punk understands there’s going to be rules:_

_“It’s my gig. My kills.” In three long strides, he reaches the bed and grabs the punk by the hair. Hard, to get his full attention, but not particularly mean. “You watch, you don’t interfere. Basically, you’re not there.” His eyes get caught a second in the vision of the bared throat, but he lets go anyway. There’s a time schedule, here._

_“You’ve got twenty minutes to get ready. See you downstairs.”_

_The mutant practically jumps from the bed in his haste to exit the hitman’s room._

_And, OK, Bullseye is impatient to go, but he still keeps his word. He waits exactly twenty minutes before leaving his place and taking the elevator to the lobby._

_As he walks out of the cabin, Daken is already there. He is chatting up one of the night guards in the deserted entrance to the tower._

_Bullseye feels a hint of irritation at the closeness the mutant maintains with the man, crowding him in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination: one time or another, they have fucked, Bullseye is certain. He sees the man nodding a tad reluctantly as Daken fishes keys in his uniform’s pocket. The mutant angles his face towards the guard’s and Bullseye averts his eyes in disgust and with a feeling of anger he will deny if asked._

_As he looks back in their direction, Daken is already marching on him, oozing allure and joyful menace. The tight-as-sin leather pants he sports are hanging insanely low on his hips. He wears one of his favorite designer shirt (and Bullseye kind of hates that he knows to recognize it), its dark fabric looking like liquid silk, open on his chest, with a weird fishnet top peeking out from underneath in the aperture which stops just shy of his waist. His sleeves are rolled and leather highlighted by hints of metal straps his wrists. The mohawk, because Daken is a contrary punk who won’t keep the only part of him that could appeal to the crowd they will face, has mercilessly been tamed into a tight bun. Bullseye can already see his targets wanting to rip apart this picture of sexual ambiguity. It’s glorious in a totally twisted way. Also, it took him less than 20 minutes. Bullseye hates to be impressed by the makeover._

_“I also have taken care of transportation,” the mutant says in greeting, looking pleased with himself, twirling the keys between his fingers. He then leads them to the stairs to the underground garage of the tower._

_Before they get to the door, Bullseye snatches on his way a piece of hard candy on the counter reserved for welcoming the visitors. The left eye is always the more challenging, it’s the one Bullseye chooses. The night guard never sees the projectile coming. There’s a light thud as the body drops._

_Daken, with his heightened senses, probably has heard and sighs in annoyance but doesn’t say anything, keeps walking, doesn’t even turn back to look. It’s not as satisfying as Bullseye would have wanted._

_They reach the second sub-level and stop in front of a gleaming Triumph Bonneville. “Less tacky and on the nose than a Harley, but still with a delicious vintage look,” Daken comments, gesturing with his hand towards the machine._

_“A bike?”_

_“You wanted to blend in a_ bikers’ _bar.”_

 _Bullseye could point he won’t come into the bar_ with the bike _, but the machine is too tempting._

_“Borrowed it,” Daken continues. “But I guess I can keep it now, right? In the light of recent events…” There’s a light flavor of sarcasm in his intonation._

_“Helmets?” he asks without rising to the bait._

_“In case I crack my skull? So kind of you to care.” There’s humor in the mutant’s eyes. “Healing factor, remember? So it’s a bit redundant.”_

_“Yes, right. And you’re already cracked in the head anyway. Forgot.”_

_“Ar, Ar, Lester. Also: adamantium skull,” he says, the tip of his index reaching for the hitman’s forehead, touching right where the spot of the carved bullseye would be under the bandana and pushing playfully. “I think we’re both relatively safe. By the way, I’m driving.”_

_Bullseye thinks of protesting, but the mutant is already astride the bike before he finishes his sentence. The hollows of his hips not hidden by the pants call for hands. He can feel the tingling in his palms. Daken is doing something, but keeping it subtle enough he doesn’t feel overly obliged to call him on it. He intends to leave bruises even Daken won’t be able to shrug off that easily anyway. (A few minutes later, he discovers there’s not much choice, he’s actually clinging for dear life, and Daken rides like a mad man. It’s exhilarating.)_

_He’s pressed to the mutant’s body. His face buries itself in Daken’s neck. He closes his eyes, and it feels like flying, and the time to kill is coming. He floats in a light ecstasy._

_They reach the bar in the docks district far too quick. Daken parks in a narrow cul-de-sac a hundred yards away from their target’s location, which totally confirms they didn’t need a bike specifically. The only reason he doesn’t comment on it is that he has loved the ride. He actually looks forward to the way back home. With the high of the kill, it will be a magnificent afterglow._

_“So, what’s your plan?” Daken enquires. The speed nailed a savage grin on his face and a few dark strands freed themselves from his strict hairdo, haphazardly framing his face. He was a perfect picture before, now he just looks… more alive. The hint of imperfection makes him even more captivating. Bullseye has to avert his gaze. Now is_ not _the time for a quick fuck against a wall._

_“Get in, provoke them, annihilate them,” he says as he starts walking the last few yards separating him from his kill. It kinda is his SOP._

_Daken hums, following: “Do you have any ideas, or should I take care of the provocation?”_

_Bullseye’s first impulse is to tell the mutant to stay out of this but, on the other hand, he knows from experience how annoying Daken can be. The thought of inflicting it (him) on others is strangely appealing. The guy is really a natural at pissing people off._

_“Have fun,” he finally allows._

_There’s too much teeth in the smile he receives. It makes him want to punch Daken in the mouth in the worst way to wipe it away. (He means that in the most affectionate sense, after all he won’t act on it.) There’s a low thrill of anticipation as he follows the mutant inside. Wondering what the punk’ll do._

_In retrospect, Daken simply settles for the simplest thing and Bullseye should have seen it coming a mile away. They enter the dingy place and stand almost at the center of the room, in plain sight. And Daken talks, a tad too loud, grabbing attention right away like it’s his due:_

_“I’ll be at the bar, darling. I don’t see anything worth my time, here.” The light curl of his lips is worst than any sneer. Judgment falling like an executioner’s axe. “You better come back to me hard and ready when you’re done with the naughty little_ boys. _”_

 _And Daken kisses him. (They don’t_ do _this.)_

 _In front of everyone. (They don’t_ DO _this.)_

_And since there is a point (and that everyone who sees will die anyway), he knows Bullseye won’t stop him._

_So it’s slow, lazy, lingering. Haunting. No teeth, hardly any tongue. The touch of fingertips on the hitman’s face is butterfly light._

_Bullseye’s never been kissed like that. Ever. His face leans into it. He forgets he has hands and doesn’t even think to put them on the mutant; his arms lay dead at his sides. It feels like an endless, weightless fall._

_“Hey, have fun now,” Daken’s lips silently mouths against his after an undetermined lapse of time._

_The mutant sashays alone to the bar, overdoing a tad the flamboyance (which is usually not exactly his style but will serve his intent), and signals for a drink, sitting on a high stool, back to the counter, facing the room. Cross-legged, regal and spiteful. Weirdly intimidating. Bizarrely, it works wonderfully well at driving all the animosity in the room… in Bullseye’s direction._

_“Who do you think you are, coming here to parade your little bitch?” One of the seated bikers inquires with venom and ill intent in his voice._

_“Don’t look at me like that,” the hitman shrugs. “You don’t even deserve to be_ his _bitches.” Which is actually true. Bullseye doesn’t even have to feign his contempt. He measures them and sees only rabble. Poor schmucks, dumb enough to end on Normie’s shit list. Fortunately the sheer number of them (alerted somehow, more bikers seem to flow the room like locusts from a backroom) will make up for the distinct lack of challenge he sees coming. He doesn’t even consider reaching for the firearms or blades he conceals on his person. It’s a personal bet with himself. (It is not for the benefit of his audience. Not at all.) He’ll only use what he can pilfer around him._

_He starts by grabbing a beer bottle on a nearby table whose neck he neatly breaks on the wood, giving himself a short weapon with sharp edges. Ready to go, then. The proprietor of the drink thinks of protesting and loses his throat in the process. Hmm, works well. But the blood that gushed makes his grip already slippery. Meh. He lets go with distaste. And the other bikers are suddenly all screaming a cacophony and reaching for guns. A lot. Automatics. Here comes the big parade. Bullseye feels himself smiling._

_He still has to upturn the table that looks the most sturdy and vault over it as the first salvo hits._

_“Still alive, dear?” he hears from the bar as the gunfire subsides. It doesn’t sound particularly worried. There’s also expectation from the gunmen. Throwing a glance over the tabletop he sees they’ve lowered their guns a tad. They wait to see if they managed to get him._

_“’M fine!” he confirms and hears the bikers grumble a little, almost drowning Daken’s amused little laugh. And belatedly, “Don’t call me that!” he adds._

_A serving tray lies at hand’s reach. Just for shock value he seizes it and, quick as lightning, viciously throws it to neatly decapitate one of the gunmen. The sudden_ absolute _silence is a decent reward._

_Then, Daken whistles, slow and appreciative. “One day, I’m going to steal Captain America’s shield just so I can see you play with it,” the mutant solemnly pledges. It’s even better than seeing the bikers take a few steps to form clusters in a weird instinct for protection and beginning to piss their pants. They’re right to be scared; he’s just getting warmed up._

_There’s been a lot of devastation with the firepower unleashed in the bar. The debris at his feet is a complete treasure trove of weapons. He lays his hands on a billiard’s cue. He breaks it in three pieces and in no time, three more goons fall, each one with a piece of wood in the left eye._

_“Not as fun as poodles,” Daken comments, reproachful. “Not as challenging either.”_

_“You are a spoilsp—shit.” He has to dodge a hail of bullets again. Just has the time to duck behind the jukebox that takes the brunt of the new assault._

_“Nice idea, Lester. Put some music on, please. You need a soundtrack.”_

_“Are you for real?” the hitman can’t help but ask, stuck between amusement bubbling in his stomach and utter disbelief. But the mutant must be serious as Bullseye suddenly spots a coin lobbed in his direction so he can feed the machine. “Nutso,” he mutters under his breath, but still manages to grab it mid-air, then to aim and land the coin in the right slit while still under gunfire. He risks a hand to blindly type a choice of song, not sure the piece of machinery is still alive, but well… why not, after all._

_The mutant recognizes the tune first: “Oh, this is so_ perfect _.” Daken’s voice oozes delight. Bullseye sniggers as he hears Freddy Mercury’s commenting that_ Another One Bites the Dust _while he neatly throws a piece of glass above his shoulder that nicks the jugular of the moron trying to get him from behind. Across the room, he catches Daken’s eye. The mutant’s eyebrow is raised in challenge. His “_ Show me what you can do with that _” is as clear as said out loud._

 _Bullseye has to pace himself. In the middle of all the action the rhythm of the song is not that sustained. He sets his kills on the iteration of the word “bites”. It takes him some concentration but is strangely rewarding. His targets fall with a clockwork regularity that fills the survivors with horror. He has now to focus on the ones trying to reach the backdoor and flee. He has to literally kill two bikers with one throw sometimes to stop the wannabe escapees. It’s_ fun _. It’s at times like this he wonders at how well Junior_ gets _him._

 _“Ho, Lester!” Daken suddenly shoots with mirth, pointing a spot on the floor not far from him. “Billiard balls!” And… It’s actually not a bad idea. He likes baseballs better, but these are fun too. Skulls are crushed so neatly. So_ easy _._

_But Daken’s little interventions start to get noticed for what they are, a fuel to his fire. From the corner of his eye, Bullseye catches a move. One of the bikers is trying to circle him so he can get a shot at the motionless target that is Daken, still tranquilly seated at the bar. It’s a twelve gauge he’s got in hand; it would neatly blow the mutant’s head off his neck._

_And the punk is not going to move, the idiot. Also, Bullseye is not in the mood to scrap Daken from the floor to get him back to the tower._

_The ashtray he picks on the only table still on its feet, between dealing with two goons, is a weighty stone thing he makes fly with his usual accuracy without even looking. It strikes the brat’s aggressor straight to the nose in an upward vicious thrust. He trusts the resulting needles of bone will punch the lights out in the brain. Even so, he throws a glance above his shoulder, asking: “Seriously?”_

_“What? You said it was your gig. I’m_ not allowed _to do anything.” Daken innocently shrugs. He looks pleased as punch._

_Bullseye is surprised to note there’s not that many bikers left. It’s actually easy work to dispatch them to their fate even if he has to rush a little to end it before the song stops._

_When he turns around, he sees Daken is still seated backwards at the bar on his stool, his elbows on the counter, one hand raised in a fist, claws at the face of the bartender who is holding his arms apart showing he won’t try anything funny with the sawed shotgun still in his hand. He would have had a perfect line of fire to his unprotected back during the fight, Bullseye realizes. The hitman is mildly irritated._

_“You can’t make your own mind, do you? And this time?”_

_“What, I didn’t_ kill _him. I didn’t even_ touch _him.” Which is true. With an uncanny precision, the claws frame the man’s face, tips curving an inch away from the eyes, a hairbreadth away from skin, but there’s no contact. If the man were to move, though, all Daken would have to do would be to pop the third claw to get the man through the underside of his chin._

_With a sigh, for the first time of the night, Bullseye grabs one of his own weapons and fires a shot between the terrified bartender’s eyes. Daken lowers his arm, jumps from his tool and makes a beeline to the backroom with a spring in his step._

_“Let’s see. Sweet!” the mutant comments, looking at the multitude of crates and thumbing through a few transport manifests. Bullseye sees him grab his phone and start typing furiously._

_“What_ the hell _are you doing?” Bullseye asks, looking over his shoulder._

_“Hm? Arranging a pick up for all that.” Bullseye stares. Daken placidly stares back. “What? Normie told you to get rid of the bikers; he left no specification about the merchandise. I’m not one to ignore a bounty, sorry. Don’t worry, I’ll share. There are next generation weapons and sniper rifles in there which will give you wet dreams.”_

_That mollifies the hitman just enough that he leaves Daken to his business and rounds the bar trying to find a surviving bottle of beer. Miracles do exist! As he swallows is first sip, turning on his heels to bask in the sight of the damage he wreaked, he does a double take. In a little nook in the wall, a table has been left undisturbed. There, is seated an unimpressive Asian man, looking straight at him, as if analyzing him._

_“Guess what?” comes Daken’s voice from the backroom. It sounds closer and closer, as the mutant joins him. “They were trying to sell to Hydra!”_

_Bullseye ignores him, looking at the sole survivor with shock. How could he have made himself so inconspicuous as to escape his notice so completely? He looks so utterly out of place in his neat little suit…_

_“Ho,” Daken says, as he spots him as well. There’s an odd note in his voice, but Bullseye doesn’t particularly pay attention, a little unsettled. “Civilian, Lester,” Daken adds, patting his shoulder while walking past him to the exit. “We wouldn’t want to rain on Normie’s little PR parade with an unwanted collateral like a lost tourist. Last time I presumably spoiled his friendly neighborhood heroes spiel I had to save a_ baby _to compensate.” There’s disgust in Daken’s voice, but Bullseye remembers the footage. How tight he had held onto the rug rat, even half unconscious. It had been intriguing._

_Daken winks at the little lost Asian man on his way out. Impossibly, Suit seems to smile back as if he knew Daken and it irks Bullseye in an impossible way. It spurs him to catch up to the punk before he passes the door to push the mutant against a wall and aggressively start ravaging his mouth._

_The only sign of Daken’s surprise (Really. They don’t kiss. Usually.) is a short intake of breath. Which melts in the curve of a smile against the hitman’s lips. In a rare show of total compliance, Junior lets him take whatever he wants._

_Hell, Bullseye blames it on the killing making him horny and keeps going. But he catches the flinch in the seated guy from the corner of his eye with a feeling akin to satisfaction that fuels him even further._

Mine, mine, mine, _his mind chants. He switches target and attacks Daken’s neck with a bite whose clear intent is to brand his possession._

 _Daken’s eyes get huge and dark. “Do it again,” he says, voice strangled, urgent. The only damper on Bullseye’s pleasure is the way the bruises, even the_ teeth marks _, disappear almost at once. Even when you want, you can’t mark Daken for long. He bites again, then. “Yes,” Daken says. “YES.” It sounds like_ Yours _._

_As Bullseye pulls him outside, Daken doesn’t spare a glance for the man remaining inside, the hitman notes with satisfaction, throwing a triumphal look to the puny Chinaman who holds his gaze a second too long with an odd mixture of envy and resignation._

_Their way back to the tower feels like a blur and has little to do with Daken’s breakneck speed on the bike, though. They’re both thrumming with what’s to come._ Leather does things to me. _What. a. liar. Daken can’t wait to get the leather greatcoat out of the way when they finally reach the hitman’s rooms._

_Once they’re done, Daken keeps him in his embrace a few seconds too long. Then almost flies from the room without looking at him. Bullseye is a little thrown by that but tries to convince himself it’s only the handy body heat and comfy flesh pillow he misses only seconds after the door bangs shut. It takes a long while for his pulse to quiet and sleep to come._


	2. LESTER AND THE BAD SEED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lester finds his target. And a little more than he had bargained for.   
> Also, he doesn't like change.

**THE BOYS WITH THE SEED IN HIS SIDE**

**CHAPTER 2: LESTER AND THE BAD SEED**

Every big city has some places that never sleep, where you can take their pulse, where the underground meets the ground, where rumors are ripe for the taking. These places, they draw Bullseye like a magnet. (They often coincide with the places a killer would go to find work, anyway.) Apparently, the guy he looks for has reasons to hide. The word on the street is someone died and someone else was very, very pissed about it. Bullseye can’t seem to discover who, other than it’s apparently _not_ his client. But he soon realizes that every person he talks to in order to track his prey has already been approached with the same questions. People are speaking of that presence like a sort of ghost. The ones that lived, that is. A few uncooperative Hydra goons ended up very dead, apparently.

It has taken Bullseye quite a bit of legwork to determine the places where a Hydra operative on the run could hole himself up, but he’s got it at last. It’s not much more than a warehouse, at quite a distance from the center of the city, almost lost in the wilderness along the coast. A secluded access to open sea, which can be useful for shady traffics and even more so for someone trying to flee the island. The deed for the building isn’t written to any entity close to Hydra, but it seems to be common knowledge (for the people in the know) how the place is used.

The warehouse is almost empty. Almost being the key word. _Dammit_. There’s very little chance the bloody piece of flesh hanging from a hook in the middle of the vast space is not Agent Karp. Size and other measurements match, hair color too, Bullseye thinks, under the blood with which it’s mated… His skin is like abstract art of hack and slash, an intricate maze of cuts, no inch spared. The ground is wet and red underneath him; a few bits of flesh lay there too (he can distinguish a few fingers and what looks like an ear), floating in the gore.

“Ha, shit,” Bullseye says out loud. _What a bust_.

“Ho, do forgive me, Lester. I’ve left a mess,” comes the voice, a whisper in his ear. It’s so near he can feel the breath on his neck. In spite of the oppressive heat, his sweat instantly runs cold. He turns on his heels, a blade already in hand. He hadn’t heard a _thing_. He manages to get a little distance between himself and the presence and have a look. The newcomer doesn’t react, actually, quietly looking right back at him.

It’s a tall and lean silhouette in a Wolverine costume made sleek, sharp and cold.

“Daken?” he asks. And in spite of the get-up, he only ventures the guess because the silhouette called him Lester and there are not that many people who do. (And Logan is dead and was a dwarf.)

“Yes.” There’s a certain satisfaction in the tone that gives the syllable a particular weight.

It’s only half a face Bullseye can see, but it _is_ the right smile. (It promises pain.) But everything else is wrong. The way the punk moves, stiffly, as he takes a step more and bends forward to put down the jerrycan he is carrying, each muscle taut like wire. Even the sound of his voice, veiled, throatier…

“Don’t worry,” Junior sardonically resumes. “He’s still alive. You can take the credit for the kill. I came back here only to get rid of the evidences, but if you want him…”

“Alive? You call that _alive_?”

Bullseye is not particularly grossed out, he’s done worse. That’s not the point. The point is that, as he remembers it, if Daken was always game for the kill, the lazy asshole easily got bored with torture and such tasks mainly fell on _his_ shoulders during their Avengers days. (A part of his mind tries to do the math. It’s the first time he’s seen Daken since their Avengers. How many years is that?)

“Want proof? I might have removed his vocals cords, the screams were getting tedious. But, see?” Daken pops a claw and, swift as lightning, inflicts a deep cut with the slightest move of a wrist. The bloody figure contorts while a pitiful sound tries to escape its mouth. “Still moves,” the mutant comments.

“You rarely play with your food that way. What did he _do_ to you?”

“To _me_? Nothing.” There’s something eerie in the way the mutant’s voice meets the empty space. It makes Bullseye’s skin crawl. Something is wrong, contradicts his clear memories of what Daken’s voice should be.

“Hey, do me a favor. Ditch the cowl,” the hitman says on an impulse.

The mutant’s head leans on the side a second, vaguely inquisitive, but surprisingly Daken does just that, lifts a hand and wrenches the offending item of costume out of the way.

“Better?” he even asks. For a minute, can’t explain why, Bullseye had thought something had happened to his face, hence the costume. (Which is stupid, he realizes. Healing factor, right? No way anything would mark the mutant for long.) He can’t fathom why Daken would constrict himself again in the Wolverine persona. But he is whole, his hair is just a little flattened to his skull. And still…

“What happened to you…?”

The question sounds aggressive. Maybe there’s also a hint of disgust in Bullseye’s tone, that’s how wrong a way the creature in front of him rubs him. He wants to take a few steps back. (Doesn’t, he has his pride.) Years ago, he would have thought Daken was doing something to him. Playing with his perceptions, altering his feelings, or something. But his mind is clear. It’s all on him. The mutant is not the one keying up this sentiment of dread; the rest of his mind remains too unclouded for it to be the case.

Bullseye doesn’t know how to translate what he sees. He just knows he’s an obsessive personality. He just knows Daken had been the subject of his obsession for a while. He just knows he has watched the punk a lot, learned a lot and seen, surprisingly, a lot. So he just knows he’s _right_ , when he feels something is _wrong_. In doubt, go insulting:

“You look like death warmed over…”

At that, Daken lets go of a brief barked laugh, but there’s no mirth reaching his eyes. “Bullseye,” he says, voice grating, with a kind of hellish relish, like a stone cold fact.

The hitman realizes it’s not just his name. _Touché_ , it is. He does not like the sound of that, strangely.

Breathe in, breathe out. Attempt normal.

“You’ve taken my kill, punk.”

“I have _not_. We’ve established that.”

And still this infuriating calm. Not even calm… The punk is dispassionate. This absence of emotion… There. Now Bullseye gets what freaks him out. Not that Daken didn’t always have a wonderful poker face, but the hitman always, _always_ could see something simmering right under the surface. (Never pretended to always understand it, but it was there.) So he feels cheated, somehow. This is not the Daken he remembers. (He doesn’t pause to consider why it would be important to have him back.) And if he has to carve into this… _façade_ … to find him, he will. Simple as that.

“I’m going to kill you,” Bullseye states. After all, it’s the way most of his conversations with Daken always began (or ended), so…

Daken smiles that empty thing that shouldn’t deserve that name of smile. “I don’t die,” Junior says.

And Bullseye strikes. At first, the dance is _theirs_. They fall in the old rhythm of strike and parry like no time has passed at all. And maybe it’s what makes Bullseye lower his guard even as he seems to get the upper hand. Only… this sense of the familiar lasts only for a moment.

Bullseye has never been shy with drawing blood. But here the result is vastly different. The mutant turns vicious at the sight of the redness. It stands out even more on the cold color scheme of this version of the Wolverine costume. It changes the tide of the fight entirely. Daken strikes back. Aiming to maim instead of incapacitate, definitively. He takes Bullseye completely wrong-footed, he who is suddenly unsure of the rules, so inclined he was to rely on what he knew. Even Daken _himself_ seems to change. Every time Bullseye shifts to avoid a deadly claw and looks again at this face that he knows almost as well as his own, skin gets paler, even bluer. Dark markings seem to appear. Pupils are so huge Daken’s eyes look black.

Bullseye tries to take some distance. Can’t. Daken keeps him close. Smothering any real freedom of movement he could achieve. Manages to grab his arm and twist it till his _sai_ falls from his nerveless fingers. The torsion is about to break his bones (his adamantium bones, goddammit, how is it even possible!) as the hitman forgoes all dignity and screams. One second, incredibly, it seems to stop Daken cold. His face leans towards his, so close Daken’s eyes look like fathomless pits.

“Run,” the creature says, in a tone devoid of inflexion. Releasing its grip on him, unbelievably.

In reaction, Bullseye’s heart rate spikes, his breathing becomes erratic. Fear and adrenaline flood his system, overriding his pride and stubbornness. He _needs_ to run. He _does_.

A handful of seconds later, he is outside, hasn’t even seen the few hundreds of yards fly by as he was sprinting for his life.

Then, the feelings lessen. Just like that.

Bullseye hands fall on his knees while his lungs try to work normally again.

That asshole has done it again. Taken his control from him, played him like a fucking fiddle. Flooded him with unwanted impulses. (But running would have been the sensible thing to do anyway, right?)

For one burning second, he hates Daken with a passion, too. Daken who has _stopped_ himself. That punk who has presumed to save his life. It’s even worse than to be found not worth killing, somehow.

“ _ARGH!_ ” His outrage can’t stay inside.

The _insult_ only… He knows it’s insane but he has to go back in there, dammit.

OoOoOoOoO

It goes against all logic.

Bullseye was bracing himself for another fight and finds himself met with silence. Well, not exactly silence, maybe, as the living piece of meat hanged to the ceiling has started to draw flies whose hum is an annoyance at the edge of his perceptions.

It’s hard to accept the truth of what he sees, so he can’t keep the words in his head, he has to make them roll on his tongue to assert the reality of the scene.

“Punk… What have you done…?” His tone can’t decide between horror and utter incomprehension.

Daken is still there. He is this unmoving, curled form on the floor whose own claws have pierced its own chest.

Bullseye doesn’t even think of the possibility of a trap. He simply can’t help himself coming closer.

They have fought a lot. Together. Against each other. And he has never ever pulled his punches. (Which was the fun part in hating Daken: the game never ended.) He also knows the iron control reining in the claws. Not that Daken was ever shy of hurting him, hell no, of course not; it would have been an insult… And even though Daken will never hesitate to insult you with his mouth, with the way he looks at you, with the way he touches you, if he considers you worth playing with, he is not going to mollycoddle you during a fight. But _theirs_ is this inescapable fact that Daken never maimed him when he very well could have and they both know it. A never discussed fact from Daken’s end, a silent acknowledgment on his own.

He can’t picture a Daken afraid of _himself_. (Even less a Daken afraid for _him_. That one, he can’t even wrap his mind around.) The mutant always has been all about control. That’s why the spectacle defies his imagination.

He kneels near the body, so exaggeratedly leaning over that his face almost touches Daken’s. It takes him a moment to bring himself to reach for the unconscious form.

Daken's skin feels like ice, even with the weird blueness and markings gone. His features are slackened by death, his eyes half-open (and ain’t that creepy), but their clear hue is back. Bullseye closes the eyelids by habit, the vivid memory of Daken often bitching about coming back to life with dried corneas coming back from nowhere and prompting him.

Relying on observations past, he has a pretty neat idea of the window of time he’ll have between removing the mutant’s claws from his chest cavity and Daken waking up. It’s actually taxing to release these damn claws. Daken is as unreactive as a doll, a literal dead weight. His claws aren’t as smooth as Logan’s adamantium ones, they grip and tear even more the flesh they’re embedded in as he tries to pull the arm back. The wound starts to bleed only when the heart starts again. Daken should be “back” any minute, now.

But Bullseye is not that much of a fool. He’s not going to compromise his own safety. He holds the mutant to him, the punk’s back to his chest. Daken’s two arms, he pulls backwards, keeping them in an arm lock. With his other arm, he has Daken’s throat in a chokehold in the nook of his elbow, ready to cut the supply of oxygen to the brain, and he is managing to hold a _sai_ at the same time, pointed back to the mutant’s face.

It’s not a second to soon. Daken’s first breath feels like violence, his head jerking backwards, falling on Bullseye’s shoulder.

“Try anything funny and I snap you neck. Stay still.” Bullseye tries not to put too much aggression in the order. To restrain but not hurt. It feels unnatural and demands effort.

After a bit of silence, during which Bullseye actually wonders whether the mutant has heard at all or is still not totally _there_ , Daken eventually hums, absently, seemingly unconcerned. But why would he be, after all? He doesn’t die, the inflectionless voice repeats in Bullseye’s head.

“What happened to you? Don’t try to lie to me. I know when you lie, punk.”

There’s a deep sigh Bullseye feels in his own chest, so pressed he is to the other body.

“Deaths,” Daken simply answers in a low monochord. “Deaths happened. My Death. Death Seed. Logan’s Death. And a last one, just to… top it all. It’s getting tiring.” Even as restrained as Bullseye holds him, he finds a way to shrug. “Nothing to do with you. You should take whatever you need from the corpse and go back to your life. It’s why you’ve come back, right? It’s OK; it’s quiet for now.” ( _It?_ Bullseye wonders.) “I won’t snap again, or anything.” The punk’s tone takes a turn for the sardonic as he adds: “I think.”

“Is it you asking me to release you?”

Daken angles his neck enough that his breath ghosts Bullseye’s throat as he silkily answers:

“Ho, Lester, I’ve always loved being in your arms, why would I want that?”

The hitman lets go, obviously. It’s a kneejerk reaction. The one he’s always had to Daken’s innuendoes. And realizes at once Daken counted on it. _Damn_.

“Asshole!”

Daken is already standing up, slowly rotating the mistreated articulations of his shoulders, of his neck. There’s the distinct sound of a bone popping. Laughter is also dancing in the mutant’s eyes and it’s such an unexpected relief Bullseye catches himself staring. Mirth quickly subsides in the mutant’s irises under his gaze though, like embers of a fire dying, for a more considering expression.

“Why have you come back?”

“You’ve taken my kill.”

“You, obsessive little man!” Daken sounds close to astonished. “For the last time, I haven’t.”

“Same difference. I don’t want your leftovers.”

“Fine, I was going to get rid of everything, anyway.”

It feels strange, after all the weirdness, to see Daken just resume where he had left off. Bullseye had forgotten about the jerrycan, Daken has not.

It’s methodical how he douses the body (there’s just enough of a twitch to remember there’s still a bit of life clinging to the flesh) then walks around it in concentric circles till the whole floor is drenched (and he has to grab another jerrycan from outside as well to complete his task). Bullseye has to take a step back every time Daken passes him, getting farther from his target each time. The nauseating, too sweet smell of the gasoline gets on his nerves. Daken obviously intends to burn the whole warehouse, his half-finished kill still inside. It feels like a waste of a death. When the hitman finds himself pushed on the threshold, he reaches for one of his trademark cards and neatly sends it flying, letting it cut the hanged man jugular. Blood gushes, death will follow in seconds.

“Mercy killing, Lester? So unlike you.” Sarcasm lurks under the mostly unconcerned comment.

“No. It’s my kill, I’ve _told_ you. Don’t you ever listen? It’s my kill so I kill him.”

“Can’t you make your mind once and for all? What happened to _I don’t want your leftovers_?”

Only, Bullseye knows how to give as much as he gets:

“Saving me, punk? So unlike you.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Manipulating me to make me flee? Stabbing yourself so you don’t follow me?”

“Ha.”

“So?” Bullseye has to urge after a beat of silence, because if you let him Daken is perfectly comfortable with simply ignoring you and your interrogations.

“Was there actually a _question_ in there?”

“I had forgotten what a headache you are.”

“Ha, Lester, it’s true then… Absence _makes_ the heart grow fonder… How long it’s been, actually?”

Bullseye sighs. And redirects. Again.

“Why didn’t you let yourself kill me?”

Daken stares. This look meant to make you feel impolite for actually asking. As if it would faze him! The mutant lets go of a quick irritated sigh and finally drops:

“Don’t get any ideas, Lester. It has nothing to do with you, actually.”

“Thank God,” he answers with feeling.

It startles an actual laugh from the mutant.

“Yes, no loss of face, Lester. Lucky you. And you’ve dodged a bullet, too. Thinking I could care about you? _The horror_.” But the one little bit of genuine emotion Daken has exhibited just now dissipates; the mutant goes back to this blank, smooth coolness. “Lester, dear…” (Yes, it sounds like sarcasm, but remote, unconcerned.) “You know me better than that.”

Bullseye waits for the real explanation, in the expectative. Nothing else seems forthcoming, though.

“You’re doing it again. Answer the damn question. It’s worse than pulling your teeth and I’ve _literally done that_.”

“Fine,” Daken snaps. Going from suave to pissed in a split second. It’s dizzying. “A lot of people think they’ve got the **right** to mess with me. Recruit me. Save me. Use me. And it just keeps _happening._ ”

Anger thrums through the mutant and it’s glorious, Bullseye thinks. The cold thing in Daken’s body starts looking like a half-imagined memory. So engrossed in his observation of the ire on the punk’s face, he misses the little crack that sounds and the fire in the mutant’s hand.

“Bring me back from death, honestly?” the mutant goes on. “And now I have to let a _seed_ take over? NO WAY.”

Daken throws the whole lighter inside the warehouse on his last word. Flames burst to life straight after. An adequate background to the fire in his eyes. Nobody does dramatic like Junior.

They don’t lose a second getting away and move up a gentle slope to look at the building engulfed in a raging inferno. Daken doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave. He catches Bullseye’s inquisitive gaze. It’s almost funny that there _are_ questions he will answer without being prompted.

“I still have some influence in here. Nobody will come. No cops, no firemen. I’ve left instructions.”

“Influence in Madripoor? I thought it was Senior’s turf,” Bullseye answers, not particularly interested but in the optic of needling Junior.

“Once it was mine,” Daken shrugs, not sounding particularly broken with what could appear like a loss to some.

They look at the flames for a while. It’s peaceful.

After a few minutes, Bullseye starts to feel the burning sensation on his skin. They’re too close and the brazier still looks hungry. He grabs Daken, manhandles him a little farther and just make them sit right back down on the meager grass. The mutant doesn’t protest.

It’s funny, he’d never thought about it again once he was done with it. This Dark Avengers team. Sure, a random recollection would pop from time to time, but not much else. For somebody who once had made his business to track every one of Daken’s moves, he doesn’t recall hearing of the mutant and has never really kept track… (He had a life, after all, and a death…) They’ve moved on, both of them, obviously, the Dark Avengers are a memory, one sometimes ( _most_ of the times) as remote as a past life could be, not much more… But some other days (like today), it feels like yesterday.

Bullseye didn’t exactly get what Daken meant with his “seed” comment, but Daken’s presence colliding with the surge of remembrance, the association suddenly hits him, thinking of this thing taking over the mutant:

“There’s no Void,” he says, with a hint of derision.

“Nope, there’s a seed,” Daken matter-of-factly answers. The tone is too flat. Too serious. It dawns on Bullseye the mutant is being perfectly literal. It simply hadn’t occurred to him. But it’s still a little hard to believe.

“Like… an actual seed,” he checks.

“Yup.” It’s dark, but the humor is kinda there and, one second, Daken sounds like himself. But then expression drains from his face, leaving the canvas blank. It makes Bullseye uncomfortable. His paranoia makes him watch Daken more closely in case this creepy transformation could suddenly occur again.

But, distantly, it rings a bell at last. _Death_ seed, Daken has said. Bullseye has heard of them, never particularly paid attention. Or only to laugh at the fact that heroes like the X-men can turn mass murderers from time to time, but that’s okay, it’s the seed making them do it and they can still be heroes! He knows, though, that this seed, you can’t cut it from them without killing them. It gets him thinking. Daken, another matter altogether. It’s worth a try. (He doesn’t ask himself why it matters to him, to have the old Daken totally back, totally himself and just himself. Why it is even any of his concerns…)

“I could cut it out,” he thinks out loud and realizes a tad belatedly it sounds like an offer.

Daken actually rolls his eyes. It’s a bit melodramatic, a bit ridiculous. So, not utterly out of character.

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” the mutant simply answers.

The hitman is about to reply as something that was apparently too close to the building blows up in its turn. That derails him as he realizes:

“That was my hired car…” he grouses through gritted teeth.

“Sorry,” Daken says, nothing at all like apologetic. “I have transportation, though, if you want.”

“Didn’t see any other car on arriving here.”

“Came by boat. I guess Karp did too when he got dropped here. Wanna hitch a ride?”

Bullseye shrugs. He’s kind of stranded here anyway if he doesn’t accept, which Daken very much knows. Everything is still burning but they seem to have lost interest, now. The mutant has a small gesture of an arm, indicating a small path in the rocks meandering towards a small hidden cove.

There’s something jarring in the familiarity of simply walking together. Bullseye has had underlings, all right. But never a team again after the Thunderbolts and the Avengers. He lets Daken take the lead, obviously, the punk knows where they’re going, but he realizes that even his paranoia, even the weird happenings in this warehouse wouldn’t have deterred him to have Daken at his back if need be. Weiiiird.

The boat is not that big, but the motors look impressive. It’s obvious it’s build for speed and maneuverability. Also, the dashboard is a mess of commands and levers, which has nothing to envy to the finest pieces of technology Bullseye has ever seen. He glances at the mutant and doesn’t even have to ask the question.

“It has an engine, I can drive it,” Daken says, tone final. The same way the hitman himself would say that if it’s a weapon he knows how to wield it.

So Bullseye trusts that tone. He also has in mind the image of Daken in the Avengers jet, piloting the piece of machinery as if it was nothing. He shouldn’t be surprised.

It’s a fine ride, actually. They’ve hardly turned on the engines when the sun definitely sets under the horizon. The oppressive heat alleviates itself a little. A low cover of clouds hides stars and moon. The boat is equipped and Daken doesn’t seem to mind sailing in the total dark, which is logical. Between this high-end technology and the mutant keen senses, Bullseye doesn’t feel endangered one second, even though, to him, the whole journey feels like fending pitch-blackness at infernal speed. He knows enough though to guess they’re not going toward the city of Madripoor proper.

“I’ve got a place, a little farther on the coastline,” Daken simply comments. Bullseye is quite content to let the logistics to him, anyway.

The _place_ is actually an isolated villa and an architect’s dream. The lighting has been let on and has been guiding them like a lighthouse for a while and through the huge window work, you can see from the sea luxury and comfort inside staring at you. There’s a little concrete embankment they use to leave the boat.

“Come in, I’ll call you a cab. Or lend you a car from the garage, whatever.”

Daken disappears inside without looking whether he follows. Bullseye actually takes his time looking at the grounds before coming in. The garden is lit at night, showing a place of leisure where nature has been beaten into submission. There’s only one access to the domain, the natural rocky topography takes care of that, and even from here he can see the cameras and the security system watching over the only entrance. They won’t be disturbed.

He then takes a detour by the garage. There are a few cars, indeed. Daken won’t be deprived if he borrows one, that’s for sure. There’s also a lot of space, a good lighting system and a workshop full of tools. He can even spot a few plastic sheets to minimize the mess. All right, good to go.

It has hardly taken a few minutes but when he comes inside at last, Daken has had time to get changed into more casual clothes and is fixing them drinks in the main room, looking thoughtful. The hitman notices Daken remembers what his poison is. Too bad he won’t have a taste right away. Things to do.

Bullseye doesn’t hide the knife as he steps into the room. He can see that Daken knows what’s coming when the mutant finally glances up at him. There’s an awareness dancing in his eyes, dark and haunted. A stillness, as he simply waits for it.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” the hitman says. He knows what he is doing, after all.

“You all say that and you’re all liars,” Daken sighs. It looks like it sucks all the life out of his expression. “It’s not the knife, or the bullet, that hurts.” And still, Daken lets him get closer and closer.

Bullseye is near enough to touch and still almost renounces his little plan, right there and right then. Something in Daken’s voice, the resignation, maybe. But between one breath and the next, the blade plunges in flesh anyway, almost on its own accord. Daken dies as easy as a switch being turned off. There’s not even any blood around the wound. Bullseye is gifted like that.

_A lot of people think they’ve got the **right** to mess with me. Recruit me. Save me. Use me. And it just keeps happening._

Bullseye stares at the body he has let go of relatively gently on the marble floor. There’s an acrid taste in his mouth. He’s one of these people, now. For better or for worse.

Then, he gets to work anyway.

He’s got himself a seed to find.

OoOo **To be continued** oOoO

**Author's Note:**

> The seven chapters are written. So, normally, I should post one every week. ^^  
> (Unless I get a life, which is highly unlikely.)


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